


wild geese

by howlatthemoony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Fix-It of Sorts, Ignores some canon stuff because why not, M/M, Mild Gore, Not technically a Slow Burn, POV Remus Lupin, Post-First War with Voldemort, Raising Harry Potter, Sirius Black Escapes from Azkaban, but it might as well be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlatthemoony/pseuds/howlatthemoony
Summary: Remus’ mouth feels dry.In his hand is a copy of the Daily Prophet.It reads:ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN!BLACK STILL AT LARGE
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 20
Kudos: 100





	wild geese

_____

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”

_____

If you asked, Remus Lupin would tell you this is his favorite memory:

During the war, but before the worst of it, he cradles Harry in his arms, the same way he will seventeen months later, though he doesn’t know that now.

James and Lily lean against each other on the settee. There are bags beneath their eyes. Lily’s hair is tangled and unwashed. There is a baby-puke stain James forgot to scourgify off the collar of his favorite shirt. But most of all, they are happy.

Their joy radiates, bright and hot like the sun. Remus almost has to shield his eyes against it, can feel the scorching heat of it against his skin.

They watch in amusement as Peter and Sirius bicker over who’ll hold Harry next, and against all odds, James does not utter a single word. Something about parenthood has mellowed him out, a feat not even Lily had managed to accomplish, though not for lack of trying. But he’s still James, and as his eyes ping-pong back and forth between his two friends, he wears that easy, mischievous smirk, the same he’d worn at eleven when he shook Remus’ hand for the very first time.

 _It suits him_ , Remus thinks. _Growing up suits him._

Peter and Sirius, on the other hand, show no such promise. They’re still mid-argument, the crux of Sirius’ being that he’s the godfather and with that, of course, comes certain privileges, such as, but not limited to, holding the baby before those of lesser title, while Peter’s centered around the longer length of his friendship with James—by eight whole minutes—and, more compellingly, his superior history of carrying fragile items without dropping them.

Remus is only a little annoyed. Sirius and Peter have had the last four days to hold Harry. Remus has had four seconds.

It was a minor setback, Harry being born on the full moon. But when a harried James had fire-called Remus with the news, worried he’d somehow take it as a personal slight, Remus had simply offered his profuse congratulations and promised to visit the moment he was feeling up to it.

(Privately, he couldn’t help but wonder if Harry had chosen this night, out of all others, in some sort of innate act of self-preservation. If, even before birth, he’d known he’d never truly be safe around something like Remus Lupin.)

Still, it touched Remus that this time, when given a choice, Lily handed Harry to _him_ first.

He’s a tiny thing, swaddled in Gryffindor red. His whole head fits in the palm of Remus’ hand, his little nose barely the size of Remus’ pinky finger. And when his lashes flutter and he blinks open bleary eyes—green, like his mother’s—

 _Oh._ Remus’ heart gives a painful squeeze.

So he clutches Harry a little tighter, feels Harry’s sleep-warmth seeping through the blanket and into his chest. And suddenly, Remus feels so, so very lucky that he even gets to stand here at all, four days late. That they’d even trust him with _this—_ this precious, loved, tiny thing—when sometimes Remus can’t even be trusted with himself.

He knows he’s grinning like mad, knows it’s manically wide and that his slightly crooked, bottom two front teeth are on full display—the ones he’s always been self-conscious of, because it’s hard not to be at least a little vain when surrounded by people as beautiful as James, Lily, and Sirius Black—but he doesn’t care. He just grins and grins until Harry’s looking up at him with his own gummy smile.

“Aw, no fair!” Peter says, but Remus doesn’t dare look away. “Moony got a smile! Harry’s never smiled at me.”

“No, but he puked on you,” James says. “That’s got to count for something.”

“That’s just how he shows his love,” Lily tells Peter, kindly.

Sirius is not so kind, and says, “Not Moony’s fault he’s got a better looking mug than you, mate.”

And then Sirius is at Remus’ elbow, pressed against his side and peeking over at Harry like an excited puppy. Now Remus feels warm all over, in the tips of fingers and toes, behind his ears and knees, in the pit of his stomach, fluttering like a hummingbird. He’s so warm he thinks if he could just bottle this feeling, if he could stitch it into his clothes, or wrap it around himself like a blanket—that even in the brittle chill of his loneliest nights, he would never go cold again.

Peter’s retort must be particularly disgruntled because it sends James and Lily into fits of laughter. Remus doesn’t quite catch it, but he laughs along anyway. After three days bedridden and alone, it’s nice to have people to laugh with.

Sirius does not laugh. He does not move or speak. He just stands there, beside Remus, uncharacteristically still and quiet, and if it were anyone else, Remus could almost forget he was even there.

But Sirius is not anyone else, so Remus looks.

Sirius isn’t watching Harry anymore. He’s watching Remus. And though Remus has known Sirius for nearly half his life, he does not recognize this expression. Something soft and shy and so sweet it makes his teeth hurt. And Remus thinks, _I can have this._

He thinks:

 _No matter what happens, I can have this._ This moment, etched forever in his memories like ink on parchment.

(He doesn’t think about how ink bleeds like ichor and fades with time, or how paper can be torn and burned and warped into something unrecognizable.)

Because, just for a moment, at twenty years old, he knows only this: the warmth in his arms and in his heart as he smiles back.

_____

Harry doesn’t like it when the teakettle whistles. Remus noticed this a few weeks ago and charmed it silent. But either the charm wore with time or Remus’ magic is on the fritz again, because it’s whistling now, loud as ever.

“Sorry, sorry,” Remus says, as he removes the kettle from the stovetop, bouncing a sobbing Harry on his hip. He presses a kiss into Harry’s curls and fights a losing battle with the tiny fists clenched around his tattered jumper.

“Bad kettle,” Remus says, once it’s quieted. “Another word out of you and it’s out with the rubbish.”

The kettle says nothing. Remus tries not to be too smug over this as he fixes himself a cup of tea.

It’s still dark outside, only a quarter past three, when Remus finally settles into the armchair by the unlit fireplace, Harry nestled in his lap.

It’s become a routine of theirs.

Every morning, Remus wakes to soft cries from the crib mere inches away—always soft, for Harry’s learned all too young that it doesn’t matter how loud you cry, if no one bothers to listen, and always only inches away, because Remus, despite everything, is doing his best to prove otherwise.

Every morning, Remus wakes, and he takes Harry into his arms, lets him tuck his teary face under Remus’ chin and rub snot into his collar, and whispers, “I’m here. Harry, I’m here.”

They sit together in that cramped armchair for hours, waiting for dawn. It’s too dark to read, and Remus is usually too tired to bother lighting a candle or fetching his wand, so he finds other ways to pass the time.

Sometimes he recites the less disturbing muggle fairytales his mother told him as a boy. He doesn’t know them by heart, but if he fudges a plot point or two, there’s only Harry to judge. Sometimes he hums, rocking Harry back and forth to the beat. He remembers bits and pieces of the songs Lily would sing when putting Harry down for a nap, and he’d tried those out the first couple of times, until he realized it did neither of them good if they both couldn’t stop crying. So now, he just sticks to whichever melody first pops into his head or sings along to the enchanted Victrola.

Today, Remus does nothing but try desperately to keep his eyes open.

The full moon is tonight—it’s always harder on full moon days—and this is his third sleepless night in a row.

He’ll be twenty-two years old next month, yet he feels like something ancient. His skin is pallid from too many hours trapped indoors, an unfortunate necessity given current circumstances, and his muscles throb with the primordial urge to throw himself out the window or dig a hole through the floor, if only to feel the dirt beneath his fingernails and to smell and taste its metallic, earthy tang.

His back aches. It aches like he spends all day tucked away in an armchair, or crouched over Harry’s play mat or the bath, or stood over the stovetop, admonishing a stubborn kettle.

And he is tired. He is so, so tired.

Molly will be coming over soon, he reminds himself. Molly Weasley is nothing if not punctual, which means she’ll arrive at eight a.m. on the dot, which means Remus can drag himself back to bed by eight-thirty, which means he’ll get at least another three hours of sleep before that telltale pang of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ starts to creep down his spine. Five, if he takes one of the sleeping draughts collecting dust in the bathroom cupboard he’s charmed closed, but no, he couldn’t—not now. Not anymore.

There were many changes he’d made after Harry. Cupboards charmed closed, various sharp wooden corners cushioned, the dishware stored out of reach on the highest shelves, the protective screen in front of the fireplace, the knife hidden in his bedside drawer should his wand ever be taken, a Fidelius charm cast, the perimeter of the cottage warded by Dumbledore himself, guaranteeing no one, besides a chosen few, could enter…

He’s not sure why here, of all places, is where Dumbledore decided Harry would be most safe, when Remus couldn’t think of somewhere he’d be _less—_ a concern he’d expressed multiple times, with increasingly colorful language.

But Dumbledore didn’t seem to care that a toddler was sharing a roof with someone who sprouted fangs, fur, and a healthy appetite for human flesh once a month. And since Dumbledore didn’t care, no one else seemed to either.

(A year ago, Remus would’ve trusted Albus Dumbledore’s word unconditionally.

Now, he can’t quite silence the voice inside his head, the one that feeds off doubt like a parasite, its poison tongue whispering, _How did you not know? I thought you knew everything. You were supposed to know everything. Why not, of all things, this? How am I supposed to believe a single word you ever say again?_ )

Remus’ only real consolation is that he knows he wasn’t the first choice. That was Lily’s muggle sister, who died in a car accident less than a month after she’d accepted Harry into her care.

Remus would feel worse about this, had the Order not recovered Harry from a _locked cupboard_ shortly after. Still, she was Lily’s sister, and Harry’s aunt—if in title only—so Remus had not immediately thrown away the still muggle photograph he’d found of her tucked away between Harry’s few belongings.

He figures he won’t begrudge her this. As it turns out, leaving Harry in that cupboard was the kindest thing she’s ever done.

So no, not the first choice. Remus had thought Arthur and Molly might’ve been the second. They were already parents, and fully capable, patient, loving ones at that. They even had a boy around Harry’s age.

But Dumbledore had asked _him_. And when Remus had looked at Harry, with his wide, green eyes and curly black hair, and had seen how he hid his face in Dumbledore’s cloak and shrunk in on himself—like, at barely a year old, Harry wanted nothing more in the world than to disappear from it—Remus knew in his heart he would never forgive himself if he said no.

They buried his body the next day.

(Well, Remus wasn’t actually sure whose body it was. Whose mutilated corpse sat beneath a tombstone inscribed with his name. But it had looked enough like him. Hair transfigured mousy brown, features twisted into a perfect facsimile of his slacken face, freckles and scars and all.

They’d forgotten the two crooked teeth, but it hardly mattered. The only people who might’ve spotted a difference were gone anyway.)

 _ONE DEAD IN ROGUE WEREWOLF ATTACK_ , it read in the Daily Prophet. As far as headlines went, it wasn’t their most creative, but Remus still got a kick out of it. The best lies were often those closest to the truth.

He hadn’t bothered reading the article, or the tiny section they’d dedicated to him in the obituaries, but he’d pinned the front page to his fridge for a whole week, until Molly ripped it down and incendio-ed it on sight.

And just like that, to the outside world, Remus was dead. And just like that, Harry was safe. After all, should anyone try to find him, a forgotten dead man’s doorstep would not likely be their first stop.

Only that chosen select few knew the truth: Dumbledore, of course, who was Secret Keeper, as he should have been all those months ago; Molly and Arthur Weasley, who watched over Harry every full moon and made the occasional grocery drop-off during the colder months, when no amount of charm work could salvage Remus’ pitiful vegetable garden; Alastor Moody, who stopped by twice a month to check and refresh their home’s protective enchantments; and Minerva, whose visits were less frequent given her busy life at Hogwarts and seemed to be for no other purpose than to glare disapprovingly at his rumpled sweater and holey socks.

A quiet “Moony?” drags Remus from his thoughts.

Harry doesn’t speak often.

Remus has read enough muggle parenting books cover to cover to know that’s unusual. But those authors recommend speech therapy and play dates and other perfectly normal things Harry can never have. So Remus had tossed the books in the rubbish where they belonged.

Harry doesn’t speak often, and when he does, it’s always just the one word, always just _Moony_.

(Nobody calls Remus that anymore, and not for the first time, Remus wonders if James had known what was going to happen all along. If he had known this would be his parting gift to Remus: his name, even after they were all gone. Someone to say his name.)

“Yes, Harry?” he asks, voice even.

“Moony,” Harry says again as looks up at Remus, eyes big and pleading. “Moony.”

Remus swallows around the lump in his throat. His own eyes burn.

It had taken him a while to understand Harry’s strange, one-word language, and sometimes he still has difficulty, and he’ll stare and stare, helplessly, as if he could read the meaning off Harry’s small, expressive face alone.

But he knows this _Moony._ He knows Harry’s meaning in an instant.

“No, Harry,” he says. “I can’t stay. Not tonight.”

_____

If you asked, Remus Lupin would tell you this is his second worst memory, because he doesn’t dare think of the first:

Remus wakes.

It’s Wednesday, November 12th, 1981, the morning after the full moon.

He is curled up in a ball on the dirt floor, alone, in pain, and he knows now something he’d suspected all along, feels it in his bones, aching like a break. He knows now that for the rest of his life, every morning after the full moon will be just like this:

Waking up, alone, in pain.

_____

Molly has a potion ready the moment Remus crosses the threshold.

It’d taken him ages to move, and even longer to limp home. His left ankle is always a bit shit, a side effect of one too many recurring fractures, but it’s worse post-moon days, so he took it easy, stopping for several much-needed breaks, and once to scrub the blood from beneath his nails in a nearby stream.

He didn’t dare apparate, for fear of splinching himself or overshooting his target by a couple hundred miles again and landing on the Cornish coast.

Remus accepts the potion gratefully, gulping it down in one go and letting it soothe the thirst-dry scratch of his throat. It tastes mostly of wormwood, bitter and sharp, but there are faint, pleasant hints of spearmint and ginger, and Remus finds himself warmed by the extra effort.

The effect is instantaneous. The stabbing pain of his recently relocated shoulder dulls to a manageable ache, his ankle a mere twinge. He watches in morbid satisfaction as the cuts lining his arms and legs stitch themselves back together, leaving behind a new set of thin, pale scars.

“Thank you,” Remus says, as he always does.

Molly waves away his thanks, as she always does, and drags him into the kitchen.

He follows, even though he’s itching for a bath and a change. For modesty’s sake, he’d made sure to retrieve the clothes he shed last night, having learned that particular lesson the hard way the first time he’d found Molly awaiting him at the door. But they’re filthy, and even with his washing up at the stream, he’s filthy, and there are really an alarming amount of places one can so thoroughly cake with mud in the span of twelve hours.

Molly points around the kitchen, running through her checklist.

“I had another potion brewed just in case, but don’t take it for at least another six hours this time, or I’ll know and there won’t be a next time. There’s hot water in the kettle, and a warming charm on the sausage and eggs. Oh, and it looked like you were running low on milk, so I brought some over from ours—”

“How was he?” Remus interrupts, fearing she’ll go on forever.

Molly gives him a tight smile and says, “These kind of things don’t just go away over night, dear.”

That bad, then. Remus nods. Molly takes that as her cue.

“Right. I’ll be off then,” she says, but not before taking his face between her hands and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’ll have to tell Harry goodbye for me. I didn’t want to wake him.”

She’s only ten years older than him, and he has to bend over so she can even reach, yet he feels painfully young under her touch. He can almost imagine his mother’s arms pulling him in, the sweet, flowery scent of her favorite perfume, the wisp of curls tickling his cheek.

He doesn’t say, _it should be you._

He doesn’t say, _please, I don’t know what I’m doing. I think I’m ruining him. It should be you._

Instead, Remus says nothing, as he always does, and continues to say nothing until long after she’s gone.

_____

He bathes with the door open, afraid he’ll miss it if Harry calls for him, and doesn’t emerge from the tub until the water is a tepid, murky brown and his skin is tingly and pink and blessedly clean.

It’s half-past noon when he enters the bedroom. The fact that Harry is still deep in sleep only confirms his fears that last night was indeed miserable.

He hadn’t managed to get much out of Molly, that first full moon. But Remus was intimately familiar with what a sleepless night looked like, and Harry had been hoarse for days after.

He’d hoped things were getting better. Clearly, he’d been wrong.

As if sensing Remus’ concern, Harry’s brow furrows, and Remus can’t resist smoothing out the tiny wrinkle with his thumb.

“You can’t keep screaming at Molly Weasley,” Remus tells him, “You’ll scare her off one of these days, and then who will bring us milk when we’re running low? I’m supposed to be dead, and I don’t think you’ll be apparating to Diagon Alley anytime soon.”

Harry gives a little snuffle in his sleep and mushes his face into the crib’s mattress. Remus bites back a laugh.

“Brat,” he says, and scoops Harry up into his arms.

Harry huffs, half-awake, and rubs groggily at his chubby cheeks. “Moony?” he croaks out, barely above a whisper.

Ah, so there had been screaming.

“Hello,” Remus says, “Are you still sleepy? Or would you like some breakfast?”

He doesn’t expect a response, but the way Harry drops his head onto Remus’ shoulder is answer enough.

“Sleep it is,” says Remus, so he lies down on his own bed, with Harry sprawled out on his chest, and rubs Harry’s back in relaxed, small circular motions, the way Remus’ father had every night after the attack, before he was old enough for calming draughts, and even after then too, if he asked. “Good choice. You know, you’d never guess it by looking at me, but I’m quite partial to sleep myself.”

And even as sunlight bleeds through the curtains, and the water and sausage and egg go cold, after three long days, Remus finally sleeps.

_____

The worst part of it—worse than the insomnia and the shrieking kettle and the uncomfortable armchair and the constant fear of doing or saying the wrong thing and ruining Harry’s only chance at growing up happy and healthy and not completely traumatized, worse even than the full moon nights, when Harry’s supposed caretaker is off terrorizing the local rabbit population while he screams himself to exhaustion, just like he had in that locked cupboard, just like he had the night his parents—

The worst part is that Remus is so bad at lying to himself, and is so horrid and disgusting and selfish, that even in the face of all this, even at the expense of Harry’s safety, he can’t say he isn’t grateful to have Harry here with him.

To be not so alone, if only for a little while.

_____

The image of Minerva, sat stiffly in that miserable excuse for an armchair and sipping primly at her tea, never fails to amuse Remus.

“It’s foul, isn’t it?” he says, motioning to the tea. “The kettle’s gone mad. Keeps cursing the milk to spoil and replacing the sugar with salt. Which did you get?”

“Salt, I think,” Minerva says and politely sets the tea aside.

“Ah,” says Remus as he takes another sip. “Lucky.”

Harry makes a happy little noise from where he’s sat cross-legged on the carpet, focused intently on the stuffed owl that’s been charmed to _hoot-hoot_ periodically while it waddles around him in tiny circles.

Harry’s not fond of strangers. He’s not fond of anyone, besides Remus. But he’d declared a tentative truce with Minerva around her third visit, once he’d made the connection between her arrivals and the mysterious appearance of an exciting, new toy.

“Harry’s well,” Remus tells her, before she can ask.

“This may come as a surprise,” says Minerva, even though they both know it’s not, “but I was actually going to ask about you.”

“Coincidentally, I am also well,” says Remus.

Minvera clucks. “Molly Weasley seemed to think otherwise. She said you looked one good hex away from your deathbed.”

“It was the day after the full moon,” Remus says, shrugging. “That’s probably true.”

“You look the same today.”

“Well, I’m not exactly allowed to leave the house. Have you considered that’s just my natural complexion?”

Minerva fixes him with a look, like she’d love nothing more than to dock him ten house points and be done with it. But Remus isn’t thirteen anymore. One stern look won’t bully him into submission.

“Are you sleeping well?” she asks instead.

Remus sighs. “Minerva, honestly.”

She continues like she hadn’t heard him. “I’ll have Severus brew another batch of sleeping draughts.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I believe you and I have very different interpretations of the word necessary,” she says with a pointed once-over.

Remus resists the urge to tug self-consciously at his three day-old jumper or rub his blurry, bloodshot eyes. He runs through a list of excuses and reluctantly settles on the truth. Minerva could smell a lie like a bloodhound.

“I haven’t been taking them,” he admits. “The potions. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort. I do. But, well, it’s just. They have this way of making you feel like you’re only really half-there, you know? Like I could be in the same room as Harry, lying right next to him, but if he called for me, I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t—” Remus sucks in a breath, shaking off the memory of the first and only time he’d taken one of the draughts. Of when he’d finally come to, hours later, in a daze, to find Harry curled in on himself, face wet and body shaking noiselessly, too tired to make a sound. “I can’t take them, not right now. I need to be here, fully, for Harry, just in case.”

Just in case Harry needs me. Just in case someone finds us. Just in case He finds us. Remus could ruin a whole day rehearsing that never-ending litany of _just in cases_.

“Besides,” Remus says, “I’m sure Snape’s time would be much better spent terrorizing first years or whatever it is you pay him to do.”

“Mr. Lupin,” Minerva says, and Remus flinches. For the past year and a half, he’d been Remus, _Mr. Lupin_ reserved for when she thought he was being especially moronic. “I know you’re new to parenthood, but you can’t honestly expect to raise a child on obstinacy alone. You need sleep. You need—”

“And what,” Remus snaps, before he can think better of it, “makes you the expert exactly? Just because you’re good at scolding children, doesn’t mean you know the first thing about parenting one.”

Minerva doesn’t react. She doesn’t even blink. During her tenure at Hogwarts, she’s likely heard worse.

But not from Remus, who she let sit in her office fifth year and cry and cry for hours over Sirius’ near-catastrophic prank, like a dumb kid finally realizing just how close he’d come to losing everything, like a dumb kid with a broken heart.

His cheeks flush, mortified. Shame curls in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. “Merlin. I’m so sorry. That wasn’t—I don’t know why I—”

It’s then Remus notices Harry, stuffed owl abandoned in favor of watching them in that wide-eyed way babies do. His nose scrunches in displeasure, not liking whatever it is he’s concluded, and he frowns at Minerva, looking more and more like he might chuck the owl at her head, because even at eighteen months old, Harry James Potter is so much like his father: loyal and good and willing to do whatever it takes to protect the ones he loves.

Remus reaches over to brush a curl off Harry’s forehead.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Remus says.

Harry studies him, which either means he can’t decide whether to believe Remus or has no idea what’s going on. But then the owl gives another _hoot-hoot_ , demanding Harry’s immediate attention, and, well, Remus can’t compete with that.

Remus looks back up at Minerva, smile apologetic. He can’t quite meet her gaze.

“No potions,” he says, with an air of finality.

“No potions,” she agrees. “But Remus?”

Minerva waits until his eyes find hers, and when they do, Remus knows he’s already been forgiven.

“Being, as you put it, fully there does not have to mean always there. You’re allowed to take some time for yourself. In fact, you need to take time for yourself. You’re dead on your feet and alone all day, and I know you say you have Harry, but he’s just a child. He is not capable of assessing your needs and offering support, and you cannot put that on him. So say what you want about my expertise, but I will not sit here and watch you run yourself into the ground headfirst. That is not what Albus meant when he asked for your help, and that is not what James and Lily Potter would have wanted. You are not expendable.”

Remus doesn’t shut down at the mention of their names, but it’s a near thing. He threads his fingers together and stares down at his clasped hands. He doesn’t dare speak, afraid of what might escape if he just opens his mouth and lets the grief bubble over.

He isn’t sure if what she said is right—if Dumbledore hadn’t selected him for that very reason—because for the life of him he can’t imagine why else.

But he believes she believes it, and he does not want to talk about this anymore. He does not want to talk about this ever, so if this is what it’ll take to make it stop—

“Okay,” Remus says. “Okay.”

_____

Before the visit comes to an end, Remus watches Minerva gamely suffer her way through not one but two cups of salty, lukewarm tea.

Their conversation remains pleasantly shallow. He shows her the picture Harry’s drawn of them, the one he has pinned to the fridge, which is admittedly more of the scribble-adjacent variety, but Remus is fervent in his belief there are two faces in there somewhere, and Minerva is more than happy to agree.

In turn, she tells him about a student who’d transfigured a songbird into a Walkman as part of an assignment. Except, when she’d tried to transfigure it back, the only song the bird seemed to remember was one by Donna Summer Minerva found outlandishly inappropriate for the classroom. And when she gets to the part about her sixth years singing _when you're laying so close to me, there's no place I'd rather you be_ up and down the corridors for weeks, Remus laughs so hard he snorts tea up his nose.

But the highlight of the occasion is when, with a flick of Minerva’s wand, the stuffed snowy owl takes flight, sweeping through the room to the tune of Harry’s excited peals of laughter, and Remus can almost pretend the stormy gloom of their earlier encounter feels miles away.

“It’s lovely,” Remus tells her once the owl finishes its flight and perches on Harry’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I’ll have to refresh the charms soon,” she says. “Perhaps next week?”

It’s so transparently not a request that Remus smiles. “I’ll see if Harry can pencil you in. Busy schedule, that one. I’ve never seen a toddler so dedicated to bath time.”

Before now, Remus had never really seen a toddler period, but he says it anyway, because it feels like something James would, and that’s reason enough.

Minerva’s smile turns a bit misty, like she’s thinking the exact same thing.

After she leaves, and Remus and Harry have stuffed themselves on the rather unimaginative dinner he’d prepared—peas with mash and bland, thinly sliced chicken—Remus washes the dishes by hand, the muggle way, just because he can, and because sometimes it’s nice to do things just because you can.

Behind him, Harry sits in his booster seat at the kitchen table, bent over a muggle coloring book. He holds the red crayon in a clumsy fist, eyebrows lowered in intense concentration, and his tongue pokes out of his mouth, just a little, in the corner, like he doesn’t realize it.

And it is the best Remus has felt in a long time. Maybe because of Minerva’s promise of next week, or maybe because, after he’d thought about it, he decides he likes that she cares enough to argue with him, even if they don’t always agree.

Or maybe it’s just that Harry looks so normal sitting there, like he belongs here. And like maybe Remus belongs here with him.

In the end, Remus decides it doesn’t matter what’s caused this ceasefire of contentment, because it doesn’t last. And he thinks, it’s no one’s fault but his own for hoping it ever would.

_____

This is how it goes:

He is holding an empty teacup. He is holding _his_ empty teacup. He knows it’s his, and not Minerva’s, because it’s got a chip on the rim, to the right of the handle, and he remembers rubbing the pad of his finger against that chip earlier today.

He is holding an empty teacup, and at the bottom of this teacup, that he knows with absolute certainty is his, is the tealeaf silhouette of a large, black dog.

_____

Remus knows what this is. Any person who’s ever had the misfortune of sitting through a class with Sybill Trelawney knows what this is.

Remus considers fire-calling Minerva, before he remembers Moody informing him, in no uncertain terms, that the Floo Network was under the strictest observation by the Ministry and should therefore only be used in cases of extreme emergency.

Remus considers sending Minerva an owl, before he remembers he does not have one, and he cannot get one, because he is not allowed to leave his own house.

Remus considers telling Minerva in person, but she does not visit the next week. He considers telling Molly to tell Minerva, but she does not visit either.

As each day pushes into the next, Remus tries to convince himself these aren’t signs of impending doom.

He is not a prophet. He’s never even really been good at divination. And he’s still not entirely sure Trelawney isn’t just some quack who sometimes gets lucky.

He could’ve misread the tealeaves. It is a perfectly plausible possibility that he misread the tealeaves and did not see the omen of death at the bottom of his teacup.

But he’d been so sure in that moment, as he’d stared into that cup, of what he’d seen. He’d felt it in his pulse as it thundered against his ribcage, in the way each breath had felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, in the grim acceptance that had washed over him as he lie in bed that night, caught somewhere between wakefulness and drifting sleep.

He needs to tell someone, Remus decides, if only to ease his mind. And when they tell him he’s lost his and it’s all bollocks and _Remus, mate, you need to get out of the house more_ , he will smile and laugh at all the right moments, like it was never more than a casual curiosity, and that will put it to bed for good.

_____

In a strange turn of events, Alastor Moody had quickly become Harry’s favorite houseguest. During his visits, it wasn’t unusual to find the auror tromping through the cottage, casting wordless spells and muttering at the walls, while Harry toddled closely behind, shyly poking his head around corners when he thought Moody wasn’t looking.

But today, Moody does his walkthrough alone, circling the house’s interior _and_ exterior no less than three times each while he casts charm after charm, and Remus is a ball of frenetic energy.

He spends the better half of the morning creating chores to keep himself busy. He alphabetizes the bookshelf, then re-sorts it by genre, then re-alphabetizes it because he can’t decide if _Frankenstein_ belongs in science fiction or horror. He enlists Harry’s help in picking up each and every one of his toys, even though he hates it and Harry hates it and he knows they’ll just end up where they began before the day is over. He scourgifies the bathroom and kitchen until the burnt-sugar smell of magic sits heavy in the air. Then he tackles every other room just for good measure.

By mid-afternoon, he has run out of things to do, and while he is physically fatigued, his brain still runs on overdrive, so he sits at the kitchen table, head in his hands, and breathes.

“Moony!” Harry says, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He alternates between munching on an apple slice and pointing enthusiastically out the kitchen window, at the clear view of Moody outside in the garden, no doubt trampling to death the few sickly plants Remus managed to rescue from the worst of winter. “Moony, Moony, Moony, Moony.”

“No, Harry. _I’m_ Moony,” Remus says with a grumble, feeling a little ridiculous for being jealous over a name. “That’s _Moody_.”

“Moony!” Harry says again and bounces in his seat, practically vibrating with delight.

Remus scowls and doesn’t stop until Harry offers him an apple slice, which Remus chooses to interpret as a most sincere apology.

By the time Moody finishes his rounds, the sun lounges low in the sky.

Harry and Remus have relocated to the living room carpet, where they stretch out on their stomachs and make their way through the endless stack of hand-me-down board books brought over by the Weasleys. Remus reads them aloud for as long as he can manage, until his throat’s hoarse and the carpet has left angry, pink imprints on the skin of his hands and knees, but Harry doesn’t mind. He seems perfectly content to just flip through the pages and look at the pictures, so Remus rolls onto his back and waits.

“That should do the trick for now,” Moody says some while later, appearing in the doorway. “It’s not a perfect fix, but it’s what we’ve got.” He flicks dirt off his dragon-hide duster. “I’ll have Albus look over everything later this week. I’m sure by then he’ll have some adjustments.”

“Dumbledore’s coming?” Remus says, instantly on edge. He stands, ignoring the flare of pins-and-needles in his legs and feet, and wipes sweaty palms on his trousers.

The last time Remus saw Albus Dumbledore was when he’d cast the Fidelius charm on the cottage. That was three months ago.

“Why?” asks Remus.

Moody stops what he’s doing and looks up at Remus with a bemused frown. He stares for a very long time. His good eye is narrowed and calculating.

“Did…” Remus shifts nervously from foot to foot. A single image plays over and over in his head: black tealeaves, black tealeaves, black tealeaves. “Did something happen?”

Moody says nothing. His eyes drift to Harry, still sprawled out across the floor and peeking up at them from behind the safety of his book.

“Alastor,” Remus says. “If something’s wrong—”

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” Moody says and spins on his heel, headed for the front door.

Remus panics.

“I saw the grim,” he blurts.

He’d thought it might offer some relief, just to say it aloud, just to put it out there. But relief evades him like smoke, slipping through his fingers.

Moody falters in the threshold. He does not turn to face Remus.

“I saw the grim in my tealeaves,” Remus says. “Six days ago. So I need to know. Please. If something’s happened, I need to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Moody says, still not looking at him. “But if Albus hasn’t told you, it must be for good reason.”

And then he opens the door and disappears into the pitch-black night.

Remus isn’t sure how long he stands there, letting its bone-chill cut through him as he stares at the open door, like he’s waiting for Moody to return or for something else entirely to come inside.

_____

Remus does not sleep that night. He does not sleep the next night. Or the night after that.

He does not sleep, because if he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams…

He dreams he is lying in bed. He is awake, but he can’t move. The air is soupy and thick, and his limbs are heavy like lead. He feels trapped in place, a butterfly on a pin.

He cannot talk. He cannot make a sound.

All he can do is lie on his side, facing Harry’s crib, and watch as the bedroom door creaks open and a shadow slinks through his doorway, its sour smell permeating the room, pungent and rotten and _wrong_ , filling his nostrils, making his eyes water and his stomach turn, and the shadow moves, nails clicking on hardwood floor, closer and closer, until it’s looming over the crib, over Harry, with its mangy jet-black fur and gleaming, yellow eyes. Its jaw unhinges, too-wide, mouth tearing at the corners, a mess of bloody teeth and exposed bone, and it’s leaning over, leaning closer, and—

So Remus does not sleep.

He sits in the armchair with Harry. He makes Harry breakfast and lunch and dinner. He bathes Harry. He plays with Harry. He reads to Harry. He puts Harry to bed. He does all of this with a drowsy fog in his head, brain fuzzy, like it’s been transfigured to cotton, and he does not think, he does not think, he does not think.

_____

On the fourth day, Arthur Weasley arrives with two armfuls of groceries.

“Got them at muggle grocer in Calstock,” he tells Remus excitedly, as he pushes past him to the kitchen. “I found these crisps I think you might like—oh, hello, Harry—The package says they’re _green_. I asked the cashier if they were dangerous, just to be safe, for Harry, of course, and, well, think she thought me a bit barmy, but she swears it’s completely edible. Can you believe that? And with no magic either! It’s amazing what muggles can do with a little—”

Arthur pauses, looking him over.

“Remus?” he says. “You okay, mate?”

Remus frowns. “What?”

They’re in the kitchen. He does not remember being in the kitchen.

Arthur sets the groceries on the counter and lays a steadying hand on Remus’ shoulder.

“Alright then, let’s just get you settled,” he says, pulling out a chair.

Remus sits and rests his hands on the table, palms down.

Arthur says, “I’m gonna put Harry down for a nap, if that’s okay with you?”

Remus nods. Harry won’t be happy, and he certainly won’t be napping, but he can’t seem to recall how to communicate all that.

When Arthur returns, he takes the seat across from him and says, voice gentle, “Remus? Do you need anything? Maybe a cup of tea?”

Remus stiffens, the days-long clouded haze clearing in his mind; he can suddenly remember every last second of his conversation with Moody in vivid detail. He grabs Arthur’s hands and squeezes until his knuckles are white. He feels so desperate he’s mad with it.

“Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, please.”

Arthur flinches, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. “Er, that’s a bit tight actually—”

“You have to tell me what’s going on,” Remus says.

“Oh,” Arthur says, eyes wide. “ _Oh._ ”

“Please,” Remus says again, for lack of anything better.

Arthur looks down at the table, sheepish. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Albus said—”

“I don’t care what Albus Bloody Dumbledore said!” Remus shouts. “He’s not always right, you know? He was wrong about me, as if it would do Harry a load of good to live here when I clearly can’t even function like a normal person. Did no one else think that was strange? That he chose a twenty-one year-old werewolf to look after a toddler, who’d been trapped in a cupboard for the better half of a month? Which, oh, by the way, only happened to begin with because of _him_. Tell me, why on earth would he even send Harry there, if he knew how that woman was and that she’d treat him like, like—like he wasn’t even a person, like he was just some ugly vase you inherited from your dead nan and could just put away every time you had guests over and pretend it didn’t exist, and don’t—don’t even get me started on how he trusted Sirius Black to—”

He’s shaking all over, light-headed and queasy, but that’s not why he stops.

Arthur’s face is as white as a sheet. Remus lets go of his hands.

“No,” Remus says, stomach dropping. “No, no, no.”

The chair legs give a horrible _screech_ as he stands. Arthur stands as well, reaching for him, but Remus dodges his hand.

“Remus,” Arthur says, carefully.

Remus thinks of the teacup, and how he’d misread the leaves after all, just not in the way that he’d thought.

“Tell me,” Remus says, and says it again when Arthur doesn’t. “ _Tell me_.”

Arthur’s expression is grim.

And he says, “Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.”

Remus feels his legs go out from under him, and he crumples like paper.

_____

(He doesn’t think about how ink bleeds like ichor and fades with time, or how paper can be torn and burned and warped into something unrecognizable.

He doesn’t think about how memories fail like people fail, because if that’s true, then is it really worth holding on to any of them at all?)

_____

It is not yet morning, and this is not part of their routine, but after dinner, Remus sits with Harry in their armchair, by the unlit fireplace. He holds Harry against his chest and presses his nose into Harry’s dark curls, inhaling the scent of their shared shampoo. Jasmine, rose, a hint of clementine.

He thinks, _I can have this._

He thinks, _please don’t take this away, please let me have this._

And Harry does not complain, like he might on any other occasion. He does not wiggle or squirm or ask for a story in that bizarre one-word way that only Remus understands.

Arthur leaves twice. The first, to run home, and fire-call Dumbledore. The second, for good.

Harry is asleep when Albus Dumbledore arrives. He lets himself in, without greeting, and sits across from Remus in the wooden, splintery rocking chair that groans ominously if you lean too far back. Remus is suddenly, viciously glad he never fixed it.

“I suppose I should begin with an apology,” Dumbledore says, as his gaze flits between Remus and Harry, voice a considerate whisper.

“I suppose you could try,” Remus says.

Dumbledore’s mouth quirks, but he does not smile, and Remus does not bother with patience. He ran out of that days ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Remus asks. “Don’t I get to know? He was my—”

Remus can’t say it, not when it hurts so deeply to even think. _Friend. He was my friend._

Dumbledore says, “That is precisely why I didn’t.”

“Because you think it’s too personal?” Remus asks. “Because you thought I’d, what, go after the bastard? You know I wouldn’t risk Harry like that. You wouldn’t have let him stay with me if you did.”

“I would not,” Dumbledore agrees. “But there were other concerns. I know you were close.”

Remus feels himself blushing, and he hates it. Hates that, even now, after all this time, his heart still gives that tiny, painful squeeze.

Dumbledore does not mean it in _that_ way. He does not know of restless nights spent in the Gryffindor dormitory, hidden behind a sheet of curtains, listening closely to the sound of someone breathing in the bed beside his. He does not know the quiet, aching acceptance of realizing you will always want what you can never have.

At his silence, Dumbledore continues, “It’s not unusual to be confused—”

“I’m not confused,” Remus says. “He’s responsible for the deaths of three of the most important people in my life. There is nothing to be confused about.”

But he knows it’s not true as soon as he says it, and he knows Dumbledore can see the lie written there plainly on his face.

“If you asked me,” Dumbledore says, not unkindly, “I would consider it not a weakness, but a strength, for the heart to continue to love someone even as they do the things we hate.”

Remus says, “I don’t—”

He says, “That’s not—”

And then he says nothing at all.

“But you are right,” Dumbledore says, when he hears what Remus can’t bear to finish. “I should have told you. You deserved to know. I guess I had hoped to save you this trouble, when I’ve already asked for so much.”

Remus looks down at Harry and at the hand he has fisted around Remus’ jumper, as if, even in sleep, he’s afraid Remus might leave him, just like all the others.

“It’ll never be too much,” he says, curling his own fingers around Harry’s. “Not for him.”

They are quiet for a moment. Then Remus asks, “Is he safe here?”

He knows they’re under the Fidelius, but it’s failed before. He knows Sirius must think him dead—and carefully does not unpack that further—but he still knows where Remus lived.

“The man responsible for the death of Harry Potter’s parents cannot enter this house,” Dumbledore says, “I am sure of that.”

There is something peculiar about the way he says it, something intentional and important. And for a brief moment, Remus swears he feels something prickling in the air before settling. Remus swears he smells that revelatory scent of something sweet and burning.

“I have something for you,” Dumbledore tells him, drawing a clump of parchment from his robes. He unfolds it with care and hands it to Remus. “In the effort of full disclosure.”

Remus’ mouth feels dry.

In his hand is a copy of the Daily Prophet.

It reads:

_ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN!_

_BLACK STILL AT LARGE_

And just below that is the photo, the one Remus sometimes sees behind closed eyes, where Sirius is holding a runed placard and glaring daggers at the camera, his sharp, aristocratic features on full display. There is the slope of a straight nose, the curve of full lips, the dark, arching brows framing intelligent, gray eyes.

He does not look like a killer. He has never looked like a killer.

Remus folds the article back up and tosses it in the fireplace.

“You’ll tell me when you find him?” Remus asks, the words tumbling out of him. “And you won’t—you won’t kill him, will you? You’ll send him back?”

Bile rises in his throat. It feels like a betrayal to even ask. Of James and Lily and Peter, and Harry, most of all.

Dumbledore smiles, a tired, rueful thing. “Though I may not have been as forthcoming in the past, I will see to it personally that you know _everything_ as soon as the issue is dealt with. Please believe that, Remus. In the mean time, all I can promise you is that I will do everything in my power to ensure the safety of those who deserve it.”

_____

If you asked, Remus Lupin would tell you this is his favorite memory:

During the war, but before the worst of it, he is cradling Harry.

He is cradling Harry, and his friends are still alive, and Sirius Black is looking at him with an expression he does not recognize.

And months later, he will look back on this memory, this moment etched like ink on parchment, and he will see a cold, calculated smile where he once hoped there was fondness. He will see a terrible secret burning behind Sirius’s eyes.

And he will think, _why can’t I have this?_

He will think, _why won’t you let me have this?_

And he will realize he does not have a favorite memory after all.

_____

Strangely, he sleeps like the dead that night, and there are no black, shadowed dogs, for he does not dream.

He tries to maintain as much normalcy in their day-to-day lives, for Harry’s sake. But he also finds himself wanting to do more, wanting to make the most of it, just in case.

He puts on a Glenn Miller record, the one Lily gave him as a nineteenth birthday present, and tries to teach Harry the pattern to a single-step swing dance—a valiant but failed attempt that quickly dissolves into giggles and twirling Harry around the room until Remus is so dizzy he has to catch himself on the wall to keep from hurling all over the carpet.

He slightly over-bakes shortbread cookies that he’s charmed into the shape of Gryffindor’s crest, a snitch, and an owl, like the ones Mrs. Potter used to send back with James after Christmas holiday. He and Harry sit at the table, dunking them in absurdly tall glasses of milk and eating so many their stomachs hurt, and when Remus gets a little over eager and burns his hand on the baking pan, he only just manages dry eyes as Harry kisses it better.

He draws them a bath and enchants the bubbles pink to blue to orange to purple, while Harry grins widely, scooping up handfuls and piling them on Remus’ ducked head.

And every night, he lays Harry out beside him and holds him close as they sleep, the crib pushed to the corner of the room, forgotten.

“Moony,” Harry murmurs against his chest.

And Remus says, “I love you too.”

_____

Remus wakes with a jolt, heart in his throat, to creaking floorboards. He thinks, with a sort of abstract, detached amusement: _it was only a matter of time._

He does not want to get out of bed. He does not want to leave this small, unobtrusive bubble of happiness he has so painstakingly constructed around them, piece by piece. He wants to stay here forever in this bed and forget all about Sirius Black and the creaking floorboards, but Remus was sorted into Gryffindor for a reason.

He is not a coward. He is brave. Like James and Lily, he is _brave_.

Remus grabs his wand.

He hugs the walls, an outstretched hand his only guide in the black emptiness of the hallway. He does not use a lumos, because he cannot risk being seen. He keeps his footsteps lights, balanced on the balls of his feet, because he cannot risk being heard.

The living room is dark when he enters, lit only by the waxing moonlight pouring in through the window, but by now, his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and he can make out the shape of…

“ _Homenum revelio_ ,” Remus whispers, just to be sure.

Nothing. Remus is alone.

He lets out a shaky breath, almost laughing. He is suddenly so delighted to feel embarrassed about stalking an imaginary person in the middle of the night over some silly, creaking floorboards.

He’s lowering his wand and turning to go, when he hears it again. A shifting floorboard. If he listens really closely, he thinks he can almost pick out the muffled scuff of shoe on hardwood and the rustle of clothing.

Screw it.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Remus says.

Bright blue light bursts from the tip of his wand, illuminating the mantle. The fireplace’s screen has been pushed aside, the hearth empty, and on the floor is the folded up copy of the Daily Prophet.

Someone inhales sharply. It’s not Remus.

 _Oh,_ Remus thinks. _Oh, of course._

Slowly, Remus reaches into the empty air, and his fingers close around silk. He rips the invisibility cloak aside, its silvery material rippling and shimmering like running water as it floats to the floor.

Remus has wasted many nights imagining what he’d do if he ever found Sirius Black standing before him again, like he is, right here, right now. What he would say, what he would do, whether he had it in him to finish the job, like Sirius had months ago.

But he did not imagine this. He could not have ever imagined this, except in the smallest corner of his mind, the one that hid in the shadows, afraid to be seen and to be known, afraid to make a wish it knows cannot be granted.

Sirius stares back at Remus with wide eyes. Azkaban has left its traces on him like a lover’s caress. His clothes and hair, while recently cleaned, are in disarray. He is pale and thin, with a feather-light frame and cheekbones too pronounced. Dark circles purple beneath thick lashes, his eyelids almost fragile in their fine translucence.

Azkaban could leave as many marks as it wanted. It could strike out and scar, like a whip. It could burn and blister or cut and tear or rip him apart and swallow him whole. It would make no difference, for Sirius is still and always will be achingly beautiful.

Remus hates him for it. But more than that, he hates him for the expression on his face. The one that looks like it’s been ripped straight from his memories and played back in a pensieve: soft and shy and so sweet his teeth hurt.

“I knew it,” Sirius breathes. “I knew you were alive.”

And then Sirius pulls Remus down by his collar and kisses him.

_____

There was a time when Remus Lupin would have given anything to be kissed by Sirius Black. But Sirius has already taken so much from him, and Remus finds he has nothing left he is willing to give.

_____

(Except, there is a moment, just a moment, where Remus is weak, and he thinks, _I can have this, just this once, I can have this:_

Sirius’ hand in his hair and his breath on Remus’ lips and that delicious, heady warmth that sneaks inside, filling up all the empty, exposed spaces Sirius had once carved out with his ruthless touch and callous heart.

There is a moment where Remus kisses back.)

_____

Remus pushes Sirius away. He feels cracked open to the core, the places where Sirius’ skin touched his searing hot like a brand, and he is boiling inside, about to burst.

It’s naïve to think Sirius didn’t know, to think he hadn’t caught on years ago, when Remus was so painfully obvious with his affection. It’s even more naïve to think Sirius wouldn’t use this against him, when Remus knows he has done much, much worse. But it hurts, just the same.

Remus doesn’t decide to punch Sirius until it’s already happened, and Sirius is stumbling back and catching himself on the mantle, lips pink and eyes dazed, like he’s been stupefied, which—not a bad idea, actually.

Remus raises his wand.

“Wait,” Sirius says. His hand touches the bruise blooming on his flushed cheek, then it drifts imperceptibly down to brush the corner of his lips, as if having a mind of its own. “ _Remus_ —”

Remus is tired of waiting.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Remus says.

Red light shoots from his wand. Sirius drops to the floor, the curse missing him by mere inches. He raises his hands, palms forward and eyes desperate, like he is an innocent man and Remus is the one who ruined everything.

“Wait, please just wait,” Sirius says. “Let me explain. I know things don’t make sense right now, but—”

“Stop talking,” Remus orders. He casts a wordless incarcerous, but Sirius ducks and rolls right, the ropes only catching his ankle, snaking around and binding his feet.

Sirius finally draws his wand and casts a quick, “ _Relashio_!” to free himself. He tries again, in a rush, “—but I didn’t betray Lily and James. I would _never_ betray them. I would have died first. I would’ve—I wasn’t Secret Keeper. It was Peter, I swear. We switched it at the last minute, figured I’d be the obvious pick, but no one would suspect Pete, no one would—stupid, so stupid, I played right into his hand—and I didn’t even get the chance to tell you because I thought—well, that doesn’t matter now. What matters is you know me, Remus. You know I wouldn’t—”

“Peter’s dead,” Remus says, voice hollow, “Because you killed him. And I won’t hear any more of your lies. _Expelliarmus_!”

“ _Protego_!” Sirius deflects, hurrying to his feet.

They circle each other, wands at the ready. But Sirius isn’t crouched to duel. He is looking at Remus like he wants nothing more than to bridge the divide, to grab him by the shoulders and pull him close and never let go.

As it turns out, Sirius Black is the worst kind of liar.

“Peter isn’t dead,” Sirius says. “I know I have nothing to show you for it right now, but please, I’m not lying. You have to believe me. _Moony_ , I—”

“Don’t,” Remus spits, seeing red; that word belongs to someone else now. “You don’t get to call me that. You murdered our friends. You orphaned their son.”

He advances on Sirius, tasting metal in his mouth, blood pumping, hands shaking, and he thinks of Peter and Lily and James and Harry, Harry, Harry, and he is cracked open to the core and boiling over and he is hot, he is burning up, and he can’t keep it in any longer, he can’t—

“ _Crucio_!”

Sirius recoils, a look of devastation on his face.

But the curse never leaves Remus’ wand. Even it knows, despite everything, Remus does not mean it. Even it knows his heart’s most fatal mistake: that Remus will love Sirius Black, even as he does the things Remus hates.

Sirius recovers first.

 _“Expelliarmus_ ,” Sirius says quietly. Remus’ wand flies out of his hand and into Sirius’.

And Remus—

Remus runs.

He tears down the hallway on shaking legs, but it does not take long for Sirius to catch him. Arms enclose around his waist, jerking him back, the action oddly gentle despite its force.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sirius says, a puff of air murmured against the shell of his ear, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Remus shivers at the intimacy of it, disgusted by his own body’s betrayal. He lashes out like a wild animal encaged, throwing his full weight back against his captor. Sirius tries to steady them, but Remus has a whole head on him, so they twist and turn and fall.

They hit the ground hard. Remus feels his head rebound off the hardwood with a sharp crack. He whites out for a second, the noise reverberating down his spine and through his bones. Distantly, he thinks he hears the sound of a wand snapping. Remus prays through a wave of nausea it is not his.

“Remus?” Sirius asks, voice tight. “Remus, can you hear me?”

When Remus comes to a second later, Sirius is straddling his chest, Remus’ wrists pressed into the floor. Sirius’ head is lowered over his, face so close Remus could count his eyelashes, can see the sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose.

Remus groans, blinking away the white-hot flares of pain, pain, pain.

“There you are,” Sirius says, with that barely-there smile, because he is a good liar, the worst kind of liar, because he is— “I think the fall might’ve done your wand in, by the way. Sorry about that.”

Well, shit. Remus head-butts him.

He whites out again, but he cannot afford to rest. So he grits his teeth through it and throws an elbow, knocks knee against shin, writhes under Sirius’ hold like a madman, laying hits wherever he can, while Sirius just clings to Remus, trying to get his thrashing limbs under control.

“Would you—stop—moving—! Merlin, how are you so strong? You’re built like a bloody stick,” Sirius says, panting. “I already told you. I’m not _trying_ to hurt you, you absolute berk—”

Then Remus gets in a good hit, right in the gut, and that’s all it takes for Sirius to let go with a moan and roll onto his side.

Remus stumbles to his feet. Pain splinters through his skull, his ears ringing with it, and his stomach rolls, but he keeps going—he’ll crawl on his hands and knees if he has to—until he reaches the bedroom.

Harry is there cowering beneath the sheets. And when Remus pulls them back, he decides he does not want to see this look of visceral terror in Harry’s eyes ever again.

“Moony,” Harry cries, lip trembling, reaching for him. Remus takes Harry into his arms and holds him like he is the only thing in the world that matters, because he is. He is the only thing.

There’s a thud from outside the room as Sirius staggers back to his feet. Remus knows they have to act fast, Sirius’ heavy footfalls now approaching. If he doesn’t, if Sirius manages to get a hold of Harry—

That won’t happen. Remus won’t let that happen.

“ _Accio_ ,” Remus says, and he feels something inside rupture and break as the wandless magic rips through him.

For a moment, he is in agony. It bursts behind his eyelids like fireworks, his teeth clenching so hard he thinks they might shatter. But the spell works, and he hears the desired object rattling in his nightstand, forcing its way out the drawer, and zipping into his hand. Remus hides it behind his back and whips around just as the footsteps finally reach the bedroom and slow to an abrupt halt.

Sirius stands frozen in the doorway. Remus recalls the nightmare that had haunted his dreams for days, and how, in them, Sirius’s shadow had stood in this very spot, and Remus had watched helplessly as he crept closer and closer.

But this is not a nightmare, and Remus is not helpless.

“Harry,” Sirius says, mesmerized by the tiny, quivering body in Remus’ arms, “Oh, Harry.”

He takes a step forward. Remus steps back.

“Stop,” says Remus. “Don’t come any closer.”

He feels unsteady and only half-there, like he’s downed one too many sleeping draughts, but he concentrates. He concentrates on the bite of nail on his palms, the throbbing ache in his head, something warm and wet and sticky dripping down the back of his neck, and the ominous black spots threatening to overtake his vision. He concentrates and thinks, y _ou are here, Harry needs you, you are here._

“Remus, listen to me,” Sirius says, moving closer still, lowering his wand. Something strange is happening to his face. It’s twisting and blurring at the edges. “I can’t let you leave here. Not tonight. Especially not with Harry. It isn’t safe.”

Remus can barely hear him now, his words smearing like paint on canvas. _You are here, you are here, you are here._

“Stay away,” Remus says. “I’m warning you. Stay away.”

“Dumbledore will explain everything. And then you can throw as many hexes at me as you want. Just don’t go. Please, you have to stay—”

Remus looks at Sirius and sees: bloodied rows of teeth, exposed bone, an unhinged jaw, glowing yellow eyes.

“No,” Remus begs, but he can’t get the rest out. He can only say, “No, no, no.”

The monster wearing Sirius’ face is only a foot away now, hand—no, claw— outstretched, mumbling—no, growling—something Remus does not understand, and Remus thinks:

_Don’t make me do this. I am not brave. I do not want to do this._

And then he plunges the dagger into its chest.

Sirius Black falls to his knees, blood pouring from the protruding handle. His mouth is caught in a surprised _oh_. He looks up at Remus, eyelashes fluttering, lips moving, trying to form around something.

But Remus can’t hear him. He can’t hear him. He can’t hear anything but the pounding in his head and the crushing anguish in his heart.

Remus feels numb as his wobbling legs carry them back down the hallway and into the living room, all the way to the fireplace. He kicks aside the protective screen, grabs the untouched jar sitting on the mantle, and smashes it on the ground.

Floo powder coats the floor in a cloud of dust, and the air turns hazy with it. Remus gathers a handful and crouches inside the floo.

He takes one last look at the blurring room and its dreadful armchair and hideous shag carpet and Sirius’s beautiful, awful face on that discarded copy of the Daily Prophet, and then he calmly says, “The Burrow,” and throws the floo powder at his feet, holding Harry against him, safe at last.

The world goes up in a spark of green flames.

_____

When the flames dissipate and the smoke clears, Remus does not know where he is. He does not remember why he is here or where he came from. He does not know why his head feels like it’s been split right down the middle and cracked in half or why there is something crying in his arms. He does not know anything, except this:

There is a kitchen table flipped over on its side, its mismatched dining chairs strewn about the room. Cupboards are thrown open, doors nearly ripped from their hinges, and shattered dishes scatter the countertops and tiled floor.

And there are people everywhere, voices loud and panicked. Remus isn’t sure where to look first, his head swimming. He feels as if he’s been dropped in the middle of a warzone.

Children huddle in the corner, a woman crouched protectively in front of them, wand drawn, as another child struggles against his father’s hold, tears streaming down his face.

“He’s mine!” he cries. “He’s mine! You can’t have him! _Scabbers_!”

One of the other boys snorts. “That’s not Scabbers, you muppet. That’s a bloody person.”

“Language, Charlie,” the woman chides, but her eyes are trained intently on the man dressed in the dragon-hide duster.

He stands in the center of the room, his glassy, mad-eye whizzing around in frenzied circles, and he is towering over someone, his wand at their throat. They tremble, their wrists bound. Their hair is wild, like it hasn’t been combed in months, and their fingernails are long and jagged. All except one, where the finger is missing entirely.

Peter Pettigrew, who is very much alive, looks up at him and smiles.

“Remus!” he says. His eyes are frantic. “Oh Remus, it’s so good to see you. Please, you have to tell them it wasn’t me! Tell them you know I would never—”

And even as the world tilts on its axis, Remus realizes with horrible, startling clarity, what he has done.

“Sirius,” he rasps, swaying, and he is thankful the woman has the foresight to rush forward and take the weeping thing from his arms, because he knows it’s important. He knows this thing is so very important.

He throws out an arm to steady himself, but it’s no use, and he sinks to the soot and ash-covered floor.

Black creeps back into his vision. He can only see in flashes of color now: fiery-red, sparks of electric blue, and a deep, sorrowful green— _like his mother’s_ —

“Sirius,” Remus says again, hoping somebody will hear him and understand, “Sirius,” and then the darkness swallows him whole.

_____

If you asked, Remus Lupin would tell you this is his worst memory, the one he doesn’t dare think of:

He is miles and miles away from home, and he is reading a letter.

And when he finishes the letter and his heart fractures and breaks, and there is no one there to help pick up the pieces, he knows now what he’d suspected all along. He knows now that for the rest of his life, every day will be just like this:

Broken and alone.

_____

But he's not alone.

There is: a hint of spearmint and ginger in a healing potion and salty, lukewarm cups of tea and dubiously edible green crisps.

There is: Glenn Miller records and over-baked shortbread cookies.

There is: _Moony_ and a jagged, lightning bolt scar.

_____

The second time Remus opens his eyes, it is to an unfamiliar room.

(He does not know it is the second, because he does not remember the first. He does not remember surfacing from the tarry black void of unconsciousness to the pale blue light of dawn tiptoeing its way across the ceiling. He does not remember the warm weight settled on his chest and the soothing rhythm of its breathing. He does not remember the reverent descending drag of fingertips against forehead then cheek then jaw, nor the quiet, steady hand cradling his own.)

The room is small and lived-in. The sheets are soft with years of washes, and the furniture is worn, blunt around the once sharp edges. Secondhand children’s books and toys crowd a small bookshelf, arranged in neat, orderly rows. There is a jumper folded on the dresser that looks handmade, the wool stitching unraveling at the bottom right sleeve.

Remus feels hungover. He feels worse than hungover. His eyes are swollen and sore. His mouth tastes like he drank a whole kettle of rancid-milk tea. His head _aches_.

“Mum says you have to drink this,” a voice says, and Remus startles.

Little Percy Weasley watches him shrewdly from where he’s crouched at the edge of the mattress. At Remus’ confusion, he points to the open bottle on the nearby nightstand. Remus makes a pretty pathetic attempt at sitting up and reaching for it, his head throbbing in protest, and then sinks back into his pillow with a defeated wince.

Percy rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle.

“It’s a potion,” Percy tells him. “For your concussion. That’s when you hurt your head and your brain doesn’t work. Which is really bad for you, since Mum says yours hasn’t worked for a while.”

Remus wonders just how many times Molly must’ve uttered that exact sentiment, for her six-year-old to recite it so perfectly. He drinks the potion in one go and licks his lips, tasting spearmint and ginger, and decides he doesn’t really care.

As always, the relief is instantaneous. His muscles relax and his mind clears. Instead of a deep ache, his head just feels uncomfortably full. Remus takes a slow breath.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks.

“Three days,” Percy says, a bit smugly. He is delighted to be the one with all the answers. “Mum says you had to sleep so much ‘cause you did magic while you were concussioned.”

“Concussed,” Remus corrects absentmindedly. Three whole days was practically a lifetime, by Harry’s standards. Worry picks at Remus like an open wound. What must he think? Sure, Remus had left before, but he came back. He always came back.

Remus closes his eyes against the image of Harry, tucked against Remus’ chest, eyes wide, begging him to stay. And then, worse, of Harry stood sobbing in his crib, Lily’s cold, lifeless body laid prone on the floor.

Percy frowns. “That’s what I said. You just heard me wrong. Because of the concussion.”

Remus swallows. “Where’s Harry?” he asks. He wracks his brain, trying to remember. He was in the floo, Molly had collected Harry from his arms. And then, and then—

“The baby?” Percy says. His noise scrunches in distaste. “He sure cries a lot. More than Ron did, and Ron’s a crybaby. Bill said so. Ginny doesn’t cry though. Mum says that’s ‘cause she knows she has so many big brothers to take care of her, but Dad just says it’s ‘cause girls are braver than boys.”

“Where’s Harry?” Remus asks again.

“I don’t know,” Percy says, shrugging. “Mr. Dumbledore took him. He’s a very powerful wizard, you know. Dad says…”

Remus lets out another breath, tuning out several more of Percy’s enthusiastic, lengthy musings. Harry is okay. Harry is safe. Relief floods through him like a well-brewed calming draught.

“And…” Remus trails off, not sure if he should even ask. “The other man?”

Percy’s face falls. He is suddenly very interested in the bedding. “You mean Scabbers,” he says.

Remus nods. “Scabbers was your…”

“Rat,” Percy says. He looks up at Remus then, eyes shining with something fierce. “He was a good rat. He never ran away, and he let me hold him whenever I felt like and only bit me sometimes. Dad says he can’t live with us anymore ‘cause he’s a bad person and bad people have to be locked away to keep us safe. But he really was such a good rat.”

Remus feels woefully unprepared for this conversation, but there are tears welling in Percy’s eyes. So he leans over and rests a careful hand on Percy’s shoulder.

“I’m sure he was a great rat,” says Remus, with complete honesty. “Much better than he was a person.”

Percy sniffles and nods.

There is one final question Remus wants to ask. He can feel it bouncing around inside his head, demanding to be let out. But Remus is not about to ask a six-year-old, who’s just lost his beloved family pet, whether they found Sirius Black’s body.

 _Don’t cry_ , Remus thinks viciously, when he feels that telltale itch in his throat. _Don’t you dare cry_.

Remus turns on his side, facing the wall, and manages to get out: “Thank you for your help, Percy, but I’m very tired now.”

“That’s okay. Mum says you can stay as long as you want,” Percy informs him, oblivious. Remus hides his face in his pillow. _Don’t cry._ _You did this. You don’t deserve to cry. Don’t. Cry._ “And I don’t mind sharing with Ron. He doesn’t cry _that_ much. Charlie says Bill just says stuff like that ‘cause older brothers are supposed to. At least I’m not stuck with Fred and George like Charlie. Charlie has his own room, when Bill’s at Hogwarts, but he can’t stay in it right now, since the other man is sleeping there. Ginny has her own room, too, ‘cause she’s a—”

Slowly, Remus rolls back over and faces Percy. He does not dare hope. “Other man?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. We had to go to our rooms when Dad brought him in the floo. I think something bad happened. Mum made him stay in bed all day.”

“But he’s okay now?” Remus asks, sitting up. He watches Percy’s every move with rapt focus.

“I guess,” Percy says, seeming baffled by the direction the conversation has taken and like he’d much rather continue his detailed explanation of room assignments. “He’s helping Mum with breakfast. He’s really bad at it, too. I saw him crack a whole eggshell in the pan and leave it.”

Remus chokes out a laugh. He throws off the sheets and jumps out of bed.

Percy gives an affronted, “Hey! Where are you going?” but Remus is already out the door.

It turns out Percy lives on the fourth floor, so by the time Remus has stumbled down his third set of stairs, he’s winded and a little lightheaded, but he doesn’t stop until he nears the bottom, taking them three steps at a time.

Two people are standing in the newly restored kitchen. The first is Molly Weasley, who hovers near the stovetop, simultaneously flipping eggs and buttering toast with a swish of her wand. The second is—

The second is Sirius Black, who sets the table with meticulous care, not a fork or folded napkin out of place.

They both look up at Remus in surprise.

For the second time in the last seventy-two hours, Remus feels his legs go out from under him, and he has to grab the banister to keep from collapsing.

He drinks in the sight of Sirius. He’s still too thin and pale and the purple circles in the hollow of his eyes have only seemed to darken, but he is there, breathing, and alive.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Molly asks, breaking the stretch of silence.

“Fine, thanks,” Remus says. He won’t risk taking his eyes off Sirius again, not even for a moment. “And you?”

“Oh, we’re alright,” Molly says. “Had a bit of a scare there, and I suppose we owe our boys a new pet, but yes—everyone’s fine. Everyone who matters.”

She sneaks a quick glance at Sirius then looks back at Remus. Her meaning is clear. Sirius is okay. Molly Weasley made sure of that.

“Molly patched me up good as new,” Sirius tells him, smiling wryly. He points at his chest, to the left of his sternum. “My heart’s here in case you were wondering. You have terrible aim.”

And to his horror, Remus starts crying.

It rushes out of him like an overflowing cup, spilling over all his edges. And once he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. All those sleepless nights and lonely full moons and early mornings spent tucked away in an armchair knock loose from where he’d carefully packed and hidden them away. He feels his muscles pull taut and his chest constrict and his lungs burn and his throat close and he just—shakes with it. Lets himself sink to the floor and bury his face in hands and _shake_.

“Aw, Moony, no,” he hears Sirius say. “Don’t cry.”

Warm arms envelop him, and he doesn’t have to look up to know whose they are. Sirius smells the same, like bergamot and wet fur and milky black tea. That just makes Remus cry harder. He’d almost lost this. By his own hands, he’d been so close to losing this.

“Don’t cry,” Sirius says again, but quieter this time, as he presses his face into the crook of Remus’ neck. “It was just a joke. Don’t cry.”

“I thought I killed you,” Remus says, voice cracking. He hiccups, scrubs furiously at his eyes.

Sirius sighs, a big heavy thing. “I know,” he says, breath tickling Remus’ skin. “I’m so sorry, Moony. It’s all my fault.”

Remus pulls back, just far enough so he can look at Sirius. “ _Your_ fault? I stabbed you. I tried to the use the Cruciatus on you. I—”

“No,” Sirius says, voice firm. He peers up at Remus with slightly red eyes, and _oh_. He’s crying too. Remus can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Sirius cry.

Sirius looks away quickly, like he hopes Remus won’t notice, and bites his lip. Then he says, “No. It’s my fault, not yours. I’m… Well, I’m a bit embarrassed honestly. I wish I had waited and let Dumbledore explain to you what happened before just dropping in unannounced. Although, in my defense, they told me you were dead. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” He smiles, eyes a little wistful, and says, as if almost to himself, “I reckon it would have been a nice reunion if I hadn’t cocked it all up. Framed for murder, faked deaths, dramatic heartfelt confessions, lots of crying—though I suppose we have that part down.”

But Remus gets stuck on, “Confessions?” he asks.

If Remus didn’t know better, he’d say Sirius was blushing. “Er, well, you know.”

Molly clears her throat, and Remus nearly jumps a foot off the floor. He’d forgotten she was even there.

Sirius doesn’t react, except: now Remus is sure he’s blushing.

Molly’s watching them, face carefully blank. For some reason, Remus suspects she’s holding in laughter. “Perhaps you boys would like to have this conversation somewhere other than the staircase?”

A pointed look behind them, and Remus turns to see almost all of the Weasley brood loitering a couple steps up.

_____

“What I don’t understand,” Remus says, as he tips his head back against the balmy air and closes his eyes, like a flower soaking in the sunlight, “is how you even managed to get inside in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asks.

They stand a companionable foot apart from each other in the front yard, overlooking a golden sea of swaying cornfields. But somehow the distance feels immeasurable, as if Remus’s body has already forgotten what it feels like to not touch Sirius Black.

“I mean,” Remus says, “the cottage was under a Fidelius and about a million different protective enchantments. How did you just waltz in there without setting off a single ward?”

“Dunno,” Sirius says. “Maybe it was the cloak? Dumbledore gave it to me himself, you know. He could’ve placed some counter enchantments on it.”

Remus shakes his head, because that can’t be it, but also, “Why would Dumbledore give you the cloak?”

Sirius pauses, so long Remus wonders, for a moment, if he even heard him. But then he says:

“After the Order interrogated me under Veritaserum, and they realized I was telling the truth about Peter, the first thing—the very first thing—I asked about was you and Harry. ‘Course, I couldn’t get a word out of them about Harry, except that he was alive and somewhere safe. Didn’t want to take any chances until they were absolutely sure it was Pete, I guess. But when they said—” Sirius sucks in a breath. “When they said you’d died, I didn’t want to believe it. I got this crazy idea in my head that if I just saw it for myself, then I’d know they were lying, and I’d know how to find you. Frankly, I think Dumbledore just wanted me out of his hair while they were dealing with Peter. He was worried things would get… out of hand, if I was there when Moody arrested him. So he gave me Prongs’ cloak, and I went to your grave.”

Remus doesn’t open his eyes, too afraid to startle Sirius from this sudden outburst of honesty. But he wants to see Sirius’ face so bad. Wants to look into his eyes and say, _it’s okay, I’m here now, I’m okay._

“It’s funny,” Sirius says, in a way that implies it’s anything but. “I didn’t even consider the possibility of something happening to you. Azkaban has this way of making you feel so—irreversibly cold, like you’d been stripped bare, past your clothes and skin, until there were only the worst parts of yourself left to keep you company. It wasn’t even the Dementors, really, not that those helped. Mostly it was just being there. Waking up every morning knowing nothing would change, and tomorrow would be the same as yesterday and the day before. But I had that. Everyday, I’d think, at least they didn’t get Moony, and that it was okay I never told you about Peter and that you thought I was the one who—Because then at least I knew he wouldn’t go after you. That you’d be safe.”

He hears the shuffle of feet as Sirius turns to face him, so Remus opens his eyes and meets him halfway.

Sirius is staring at him, unblinking. Tiny flecks of sunlight catch in the gray of his eyes, turning them a turbulent, ashen blue. Under this light, his skin looks almost healthy, cheeks pleasantly flushed from the wind, and his hair shines. It takes every last bit of restraint Remus has not to reach out and touch.

“Then I saw a headstone with your name on it,” Sirius says. His gaze is unfocused now, trapped in the memory. “And that’s the worst I’ve ever felt. Worse than that night, worse than Azkaban, worse than lying on your bedroom floor, bleeding out, because then I knew you were okay. You were alive, and you had Harry, and you were okay. But when I saw your grave, I thought—I thought I’d lost everything, Remus. I just wanted a few things of yours, that’s all. That’s why I was there that night. I just—”

Remus can’t listen to this. Not when it’s so painfully close to how he’d felt every single day for the past four months.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Remus asks. “About switching Peter to Secret Keeper.”

If Sirius is surprised by the topic change, he does not let on. His mouth twists into a parody of a smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes,” Remus says. “I want you to say it anyway.”

Sirius nods, says, “I thought you were the spy. I thought you were the one leaking information to the Death Eaters—or to Greyback, to be more specific.”

Remus takes a moment to absorb that. Then he lets it slip through his fingers like a cool breeze.

“Okay,” says Remus. “I thought you betrayed our friends, and three nights ago, I thought you’d come back to finish the job.”

“Okay,” says Sirius. “For the record, I would die before that happened.”

Remus gives in. He reaches out, resting a hand against Sirius’ chest, right over the spot he’d pierced with a blade three days prior.

“For the record,” Remus says. He slides his hand over, just barely, until he can feel Sirius’ heartbeat fluttering beneath his palm. “You already almost did.”

It’s then Remus thinks back to his conversation with Dumbledore, mere hours before Sirius had shown up, in the middle of the night, with a cloak Dumbledore had given him.

He thinks back to: _The man responsible for the death of Harry Potter’s parents cannot enter this house. I am sure of that._

And he asks, “Would you like to see Harry?”

And Sirius’ answering smile could rival the sun.

_____

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” is the first thing Remus says, when he steps through the floo and into his living room.

Like the Burrow’s kitchen, the room has been restored to all its hideous former glory. Even the tiny jar of floo powder sits on the mantle, whole and undisrupted. Remus supposes he should be grateful for that. He’s not.

“ _Remus_ ,” Sirius says, horrified, but Albus Dumbledore simply stands, polite expression unchanging. If Remus had a wand, he would’ve raised it, just to see if the great and powerful wizard was truly so fearless.

“I almost killed him,” Remus says. “Did you know that? Is that why you changed the enchantments? So he’d die. Tie up all the lose ends?”

Even in his anger, he knows it’s a ridiculous accusation. But Remus still takes a step closer, fists clenching. Apparently that’s enough to shock Sirius into action, who snakes an arm around Remus’ waist, tugging him back.

“Whoa. Easy there,” Sirius says. “You’re not thinking straight. He’s not thinking straight. That’s just the concussion talking—”

“I’m thinking perfectly fine, thank you,” Remus says, shaking Sirius off. He jabs a finger into Dumbledore’s chest. “I have done everything you asked me to. Everything. All I asked for in return was honesty, and you couldn’t even give me that.”

Dumbledore does not swat his hand away or take a step back from it or even look at it. He just watches Remus with that cool, assessing gaze.

“It was never my intention to put either of you in harm’s way,” Dumbledore says. “While I admit I did alter the warding, I did not think the changes would be tested so soon. It was simply another precaution. A means of confirming what I’d already expected to be true: that Sirius Black was innocent.”

“You told him I was dead,” Remus says. “You gave him the cloak. What the hell did you think he was going to do?”

“An oversight on my part,” Dumbledore agrees, always so diplomatic. “I can only say how truly sorry and grateful I am to see that you both, and Harry, have not suffered too greatly as a result.”

Remus snorts. “Oh, no, not too greatly. I’ll be lucky if Harry can ever sleep again, but I guess that’s not so big in the scheme of things.”

It doesn’t take long for to Sirius catch what direction the conversation is heading, despite the missing pieces. He’d always been good at that, especially when it came to Remus.

“Moony,” he says, trying to step between them, but Remus won’t let him. “I already told you. This is my fault. I’m sure if Dumbledore had known I was coming, he would’ve stopped me. This wasn’t some secret plan to get me out of the way. He believed I was innocent. He was trying to help me clear my name. If he really wanted me dead, he could’ve done it himself.”

Remus ignores him. “Were you even going to tell me? About Sirius?” he asks Dumbledore, but he can already feels his anger fading. He is too exhausted to continue an argument only one of them seems to be having. “Once this was all over, like you promised. Or was that just another one of your oversights?”

He thinks, maybe, the most difficult part to accept is that this was simply a mistake and not some horrible plot arranged against him. That Albus Dumbledore was capable of making mistakes, when everyone followed him so blindly. It was the same worry that had plagued him since November. Because if that was the case, how many more mistakes had he made? If that was the case, was Remus one of them?

“I meant every word I said,” Dumbledore tells him. “I would not deprive you this happiness, Remus. Especially when instances such as these are so few and a far between.”

Dumbledore aims a not-so surreptitious look at Sirius then, and Remus feels his cheeks warm. That would almost feel maliciously intentional, were it not for the genuine compassion now shining in Dumbledore’s eyes.

He hears Sirius cough a little, like he’d made a sound in reaction and was trying to cover it. But Remus does not think about the implications of that now.

Instead, he finds that suddenly, desperately, he knows what he needs Dumbledore to tell him. He knows what will finally put to bed the weeks of pent up rage that’d been brewing inside. After months of pretending he didn’t, he needs to know.

“Why me?” Remus asks, before he can lose his nerve. “Why did you pick me to look after Harry? You can say what you want; you obviously don’t trust me, not implicitly at least. And you let him live with a child abuser for weeks before you even considered me a viable alternative. Something changed. What was it?”

For the first time since the conversation began, Remus gets a visible reaction. Albus Dumbledore frowns, expression puzzled. Like he hadn’t even considered Remus didn’t already know the answer.

“When Lily Potter sacrificed herself for her son, the magic behind her protection was sealed in her blood. The very same blood that runs through Harry’s veins and that once ran through her sister’s. As long as Harry called home the place where his mother’s blood still dwelled, Voldemort could never touch him, and I knew he would be safe. That is the _only_ reason I chose the Dursleys,” Dumbledore explains. “But that is not why I chose you.”

Out the corner of his eye, Remus sees Sirius tense at Lily’s name, and he feels the emotion reverberating through him. It’s different to hear their names in someone else’s voice. It’s different to hear your worst memories spoken aloud. Remus wants to take Sirius’ hand in his, offer what little comfort he can, but he will not do so while Dumbledore is still here. It feels too much like an admission he is not yet willing to make.

“Then what is?” Remus asks. Dumbledore is still giving him that look, the one that says he still can’t quite believe Remus doesn’t already know.

“Because it is what Harry’s parents would have wanted,” he says.

And then he says nothing else. Like it’s as simple as that. Like that’s the only reason that matters.

Remus shakes his head. Because that can’t be it. Because that can’t be what Lily and James would have wanted. Remus is a werewolf. Remus has no idea what he’s doing. Remus was never their favorite. That was Sirius. Sirius is Harry’s real godfather. Sirius is the one who held him in his arms the day he was born. Remus is the afterthought. The invite four days later. Hell, Peter had even gotten to hold Harry before him, and he—

(But, when given a choice, Lily handed Harry to _him_ first.)

Remus shakes away the memory. Sirius hadn’t been an option before. Now, he is.

“Then he should be with Sirius,” Remus decides, even as his heart breaks. “He’s Harry’s godfather. That’s what they would have wanted. Not me.”

“No,” Sirius says, sounding furious. Remus looks over to find him scowling, lips twisted into a thin, unhappy line. His eyes sear into Remus’ with intensity he hasn’t seen since, since—

(“I knew it,” Sirius breathes. “I knew you were alive.”)

“Harry loves you,” Sirius says. “I’m not taking him away. I told you I would die before I hurt either of you. _This_ will hurt you.”

“It’s what they wanted,” Remus argues, but Sirius is already responding, “None of this is what they wanted.”

“I’m a werewolf—” Remus argues, but Sirius interrupts with, “Yes. You turn into a great hulking, smelly beast once a month. What else?”

“He’s not safe with me,” Remus argues, but Sirius huffs and says, “That’s rubbish and you know it. Of course he’s safe with you. I have the scar on my chest to prove it.”

Remus jerks back at that, but Sirius does not look in the slightest bit apologetic.

“Do you honestly think I’m any better?” Sirius asks. “Moony, I just got out of Azkaban. For a crime I didn’t commit. I’m still a wanted criminal. And I can’t shake this voice inside my head, the one that keeps telling me it’s my fault. That I’m the reason James and Lily are dead in the first place. No sane person would leave me alone with a toddler.”

Remus says, “He can’t stay with me. It wouldn’t be right. It was always temporary. I knew that. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sirius says, “Well, he can’t stay with me. I don’t know the first thing about kids. I’ll ruin him. I’ll make his life miserable. He’ll hate me. He’ll hate you for leaving him with me.”

Remus snaps, “I guess we’ll just have to do it together then.”

Sirius snaps back, “I guess so.”

And then they look at each other for a moment, the unceremonious conclusion of it sinking in. And _oh_ , Remus didn’t even think that was an option, but now that it’s out there, he knows his heart could not bear anything less.

“I’m glad we’ve come to a decision then,” Dumbledore says, with that infuriating, half-smile. “How blessed Harry is to have not one but two guardians so… fervent with their care.”

Even if he’d wanted to, there was no point in disputing it now, for anyone knew—Remus most of all—that Albus Dumbledore’s word was final.

_____

Miraculously, Harry is still sleeping when Remus finally returns to his bedroom.

Sirius’ blood has been scourgified off the floor. The dagger is suspiciously absent, not that Remus would want to keep it now, after what it had almost accomplished.

Harry’s eyes flutter open as Remus stares down into his crib. His nose is wrinkled, like he’d gone to bed angry, and Remus lets himself take a little satisfaction in the idea that Albus Dumbledore had most likely not slept much these last three days. But other than that, he looks perfectly normal, like the trauma of the events transpired had already been forgotten—though Remus knows, as they will soon find out—this is surely not the case.

“Moony,” Harry says, reaching for him, as is their routine. Remus grins.

Sirius hovers nervously in the doorway. At first, Remus thinks this is—reasonably—because he does not want to re-enter the room he almost died in, but then he sees the shy, hopeful look on Sirius’ face.

As soon as Harry is in Remus’ arms, as soon as Remus turns to face Sirius, Harry breaks into a series of piercing, paralyzing cries. He kicks his feet, thrashing in Remus’ hold. He screams. He buries his face so deep in Remus’ shirt, for a second Remus worries he can’t breathe.

Misery wears Sirius’ face like a second skin. His shoulders drop, his hands falling limply to his sides, and Remus can see the resolve behind his gaze waver.

“Maybe I should go,” Sirius says, when it’s clear Harry shows no signs of stopping.

“Maybe,” Remus agrees as he sits on the bed. But Remus does not want Sirius to go, so he says, “Come here.”

Sirius hesitates.

“Come here,” Remus repeats.

Sirius crosses the room, shoulders tensed, like he’s still planning a speedy escape, and tentatively takes a seat beside Remus and Harry.

They sit there in silence for a long while—well, not silence, since Harry doesn’t really stop crying; he just gets quieter, a theme of little gasps and sniffles—Sirius looking at the top of Harry’s head, Remus looking at Sirius. Sirius is mesmerized, like he had been that first night, eyes wide, mouth open.

“He looks more and more like James everyday,” Remus says, because he knows exactly what Sirius is thinking. Sirius just nods, probably worried his voice would shock Harry into another bout of screams.

So Remus keeps looking at Sirius. He keeps looking at him and lets himself wonder—finally, now that he can, now that it’s safe—why Sirius kissed him. If, for Sirius, it was simply something born from heightened emotions and months of forced isolation, from elation at seeing a dear friend returned from the dead. Or…

It echoes through Remus’ head, hijacking his every thought with an endless invocation of _or, or, or…_

He thinks, if Sirius only looked up, he would see the conflict all over Remus’ face, and he would know exactly what Remus was thinking, and then Remus wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.

But Sirius does not look up, because he is too busy looking at Harry.

Finally, when Harry has seemed to cry himself out, Remus says, “Harry, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Harry stirs, just a little, but he does not raise his head. Remus continues.

“You’ve actually already met before, several times. You might even remember him, if you look hard enough. But it’s okay if you don’t. We can just make new memories. Preferably ones a little less traumatic.”

And there it is. Harry peaks up at him, green eyes huge and wet.

“Hello,” Remus says, and he can’t contain the stupid smile he feels tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So? What do you say? Would you like me to introduce you? I promise he’s not nearly as intimidating as he thinks.”

Harry says nothing, but he does not look away, so Remus scoots closer to Sirius, so close Sirius’ thigh is a line against his own, and he turns Harry gently in his arms, until Harry and Sirius face one another once again.

It feels so much like a memory of his—his favorite memory, if those were even things worth having—with Harry in his arms and Sirius at his side, soaking up their warmth like a hot summer day.

Harry blinks first, Sirius soon following. But Harry, despite everything, does not cry.

“Harry,” Remus murmurs, not wanting to interrupt the stare-off. Something about it feels singularly important. “This is your godfather, Padfoot.

It’s so small, you could barely catch it, but Remus sees Sirius hold back a flinch at the name. Like Remus, he must’ve thought he’d go his whole life without hearing it ever again.

“I know things may feel strange right now, and you might still be a little scared, but I’m going to need you to be brave—brave like your mother and father—and push through it, because Padfoot loves you. And because I love you and I love him, and I’ll be very cross if you make me choose between the two of you again.”

The implied, _because I’ll choose you, I’ll always choose you_ , goes unsaid.

If he looked up, he would see Sirius’ stare burning a mark into his profile. If he looked up, he would see that shy, hopeful look again flitting its way across Sirius’ face. If he looked up, he would know—during those restless nights in the Gryffindor dormitory, hidden behind a sheet of curtains, listening closely to the sound of someone breathing in the bed beside his— that perhaps someone was listening right back on the other side.

But he does not look up, because he is too busy looking at Harry, and because it never once crossed his mind that all these years he might’ve been wanting something he could actually have.

_____

They fall asleep like that: Remus lying on his back, Harry lying on his chest, and Sirius lying at their side.

_____

Sirius does not mention the kiss, so Remus does not ask.

He thinks that, in itself, is answer enough.

_____

It’s three in the afternoon, Harry is still asleep from their earlier impromptu nap, and Remus is fixing himself a disgusting cup of tea, when Sirius corners him in the kitchen, and says, “You said you loved me.”

Remus pauses, mid-pour. He feels the milk drip down until it’s flowing over the brim of the cup and onto Remus’ fingers. Remus sets the bottle down, casually, like he has no idea he’s spilled it everywhere, and turns to face Sirius.

It’s been a long time since Remus has seen Sirius this way: rumpled, sleep-warm, hair sticking slightly up in the back. There’s a pink pillow imprint on his left cheek, right beneath the pale-yellow remnants of a bruise, the one Remus had left with his own hand after they’d—

The most bizarre thing, however, is that Sirius looks… annoyed.

With a vague sort of interest, Remus wonders what exactly he did. How he’d managed to ruin everything all over again in the span of two short hours.

“I did,” Remus says. “Of course I do. Sirius, you’re my best friend.”

“That’s nice,” Sirius says, dismissively. “But you know that’s not what I meant.”

Remus does not need to fill in the blanks. He can tell by Sirius’ irritate expression this is not a case of _or, or, or_ at all.

“I’m tired of dancing around this,” Sirius says. “I tried to be patient, but you’re driving me mental.”

“Okay,” Remus says, turning back to the counter as his eyes sting in warning. “I understand.”

Sirius stops him, hand on Remus’ shoulder, and says, “No. You don’t. Clearly.”

And says, “I’m in love with you. And I thought that was obvious when I broke into your house and snogged you and wanted to keep snogging you even after you stuck a knife in me, but apparently it’s not, so I’m saying it now. I’m in love with you. And I think you’re in love me too, and have been for a while—no offense, you’re not subtle—except I came back and I kissed you and you punched me, and now you won’t even talk to me about it—”

“You’re in love with me,” Remus says.

“Yes,” Sirius says.

“You’re sure?” Remus asks, because he has to be sure. They can’t do this if he’s not sure.

Sirius reaches up, cupping his hands around Remus’ face and meeting his eyes. He says, “You know, it’s strange. Every time the Dementors fed off me, there was always one memory they couldn’t seem to touch. It was four days after Harry was born, do you remember? And you were holding him for the first time, and he smiled at you, and I’d never seen that expression on your face before, and—”

Remus leans in and kisses him.

It’s not like the first, where Remus had been half-focused on documenting everything—the soft graze of their lips, the rough twist of Sirius’ hand in his shirt—and half-focused on purging it from his mind upon contact. This time, Remus takes the time, because he has it, to catalogue it all.

Sirius’ hands curl around his jaw, fingertips tracing the delicate skin just beneath his ears. He is close, chest warm against Remus’, the tips of their bare feet touching. He is so close, Remus can feel everything. He can feel Sirius’ breath hitch when Remus pushes impossibly closer and opens his mouth, letting Sirius’ tongue brush against his own. He can feel Sirius’ pulse throbbing when Remus’ hand slips up Sirius’ neck and threads through his hair. He can feel Sirius moan into his mouth when he gives the roots at the back of his head a sharp tug, just because he can, just because he wants to know what Sirius sounds like when he does it.

“Merlin,” Sirius says, breaking off. His eyes are wild, his lips swollen red. “If I’d known you kissed like that, I would have snogged you fifth year.”

Remus laughs. His chest feels so full he has to put a hand over it, for fear it’ll burst. “I did not kiss like this in fifth year.”

When Sirius leans in to kiss him again, open and wet, Remus resists the urge to push him up against the countertop, then quickly realizes—oh, he doesn’t have to do that anymore. So Remus pushes Sirius against the countertop and Sirius goes willingly, only breaking the kiss when Remus helps lift him up onto it, and then diving back in a frenzy. He hooks a knee around the back of Remus’ thigh, dragging him into the spread of his legs until there’s no space between them, none at all, and Remus crowds against him, kissing his mouth, the sharp jut of his jaw, the line of his throat.

Sirius’ hands creep under Remus’ shirt and up his back with their feverish heat, the blunt edge of nails scraping down his shoulder blades, his spine, the small of his back, then lower, and Remus can’t stop the noise he presses into Sirius’ skin or the cut of teeth he chases it with. He feels his hips jerk forward, before he even realizes he’s doing it, and Sirius’ hands grip onto them, fingers digging in—there’ll be bruises; Remus will poke at them in the mirror later—so Remus does it again and again and—

And then Sirius’ head thumps back into the cupboard door with a loud bang. They freeze and wait with bated breaths for…

“Moony,” he hears Harry call from the other room.

Remus groans and lets his head fall against Sirius’ chest, taking a moment to collect himself and furiously will away any physical evidence of their activities. Sirius raises a hand to gently pet the hairs at the nape of his neck. Remus would think him completely unaffected, were it not for his hands shaking.

“That’s going to happen a lot,” Remus warns Sirius. “Just so you’re aware.”

Sirius tips Remus’ head back and presses a soft, close-mouthed kiss against his lips.

“Can’t wait,” he says as he pulls away, and he’s wearing that expression again, the one Remus now recognizes but still can’t put a name to, not yet, but he supposes there’s always time for that.

And Remus smiles.

_____

This is how it goes:

Minerva will be stopping by soon. It will be the first time she’s seen Sirius since the night James and Lily died, and she will hug him like it’s the last. She will apologize to Remus for her forced absence, even though she knows she is already forgiven. She will bring Harry a new gift, a snitch, charmed to buzz around the room in low, lazy circles that a toddler could easily catch, if they tried hard enough.

They will drink salty, rancid-milk tea, while they discuss:

Sirius’ upcoming trial. The possibility of Remus coming out from hiding, at least in the muggle world, and then the wizard one, once Harry goes to Hogwarts. Relocating to Grimmauld Place, even though Sirius hates it. Staying at the cottage, even though Remus hates it. Eventually, they will reach an agreement, but that doesn’t have to happen right now.

And at some point, Harry will look up at Remus and point at the fluttering snitch and say, “Moony. Moony. _Fly_.”

And Remus will burst into tears, while Sirius laughs hysterically and squeezes Remus’ hand in a tight promise, that he’ll do his very best to never let go.

And Remus will think, _I can have this_. He will think, _Lily and James would want me to have this._

And for the first time in a long time, he will believe it.

_____


End file.
